All I Ask You
by Wildhorses1492
Summary: What if. . . Caspian's father lived? What if the Prince we know was constantly trying to prove himself to King Caspian IX? What happens when Caspian learns his father knows Narnians aren't simply a fairy-tale, and he plans to wipe them out once and for all, to keep the stolen throne? The revolution isn't a war for justice, but a war for understanding between a son and his father.
1. Chapter 1

**_What if…? What if… Caspian's father_** ** _lived_** ** _? What if… Caspian constantly had to prove himself to King Caspian the Ninth? What happens when Prince Caspian learns that his father, King Caspian,_** ** _knows_** ** _that Narnians aren't simply a fairytale, and that he's planning to murder them once and for all, to keep the stolen throne? Not a war for justice, but a war for understanding, between a father and his son, between a son and his father._**

 **~|:Chapter One:|~**

The dark haired young man dismounted, black cape billowing around him. His stallion shifted under his hands as he led the horse into the stable at Zadvede, the Telmarine castle near the old Narnian landmark known as 'Beaver's Dam'. He took a deep breath as he began unsaddling Destrier, the tall black stallion that he'd received from his mother as a gift two years before she had died of Plague. Soldiers, from the regiment under his order, entered not far behind him and began the same ministrations to their mounts.

He hefted the saddle off the horse but dropped the heavy leather object onto the cobbles and straw with a groan of pain, doubling over, grasping at his shoulder. His long, thick cape and the white fabric of his shirt hid the bandages that covered a painful wound he'd received from a Nightrider's sword. As he waited for the momentary, self-inflicted agony to subside, a man walked up, bent to retrieve the saddle, all the while looking at the young man with concern.

"You know that wound was deep Caspian, if you want to heal properly you should not be doing this. I can easily take care of Destrier this once, rest," the man said, his accent thick as he shifted the saddle, walking across the large space to place it on a rack under the horse's black leather and metal bridle.

"You know why I can't do that Uncle! I cannot let him think me weak, it would only increase his displeasure over me, I mustn't seem weak," the young man contradicted, whispering it under his breath in a self-taught mantra, as he grabbed a brush and pulled it in furious strokes across Destrier's flanks with his good arm.

Lord Miraz, the younger brother of King Caspian IX, and uncle to Prince Caspian, the injured – and rather stubborn – young man before him, sighed. He knew Caspian sought only approval from his father, who had not looked at the boy with a kind glance since his mother had died, nearly fifteen years ago. Miraz could not understand his brother.

"Prince Caspian, your father, the King, requests you come to him at once and report on the raid that you led nearly two moons ago," a soldier said when he'd come to the Prince. His voice was emotionless, devoid of any feeling, like most everything at Zadvede.

Caspian slowly subsided from the care of his mount, his eyes looking toward the floor as he gave a small sigh and a nod of recognition; he'd been dreading this moment. The soldier moved away.

"You know it was beyond your control, there were too many, it is not your fault," Miraz tried to reassure his nephew.

"The King will not see it as such," Caspian murmured, almost brokenly, before straightening and walking off. He seemed strong, his stride seemed confidant, but Miraz could see the uncertainty in it, the fear – the pain and hurt of rejection, over the years he had learned to spot it. He looked away from his nephew's vanishing figure, embarrassed that he could not do anything to help.

 **~o0o~**

Caspian pushed open the Council Room doors with false bravado, barely hiding his wince as he strained too hard against his injury. The Lords – all but the two who had journeyed with him to the borders of the Western Wild and The Ruins; his uncle and Lord Efraín – turned their heads to watch him enter. Most were grey-bearded older men, who had had their positions since the end of Caspian VIII's rule.

He grasped his hilt, and with a sweeping motion of his injured arm, bowed before his father.

On the raised dais of grey slate was a throne made of metal and gold, on this throne sat Caspian's father. The older man regarded the room with cool grey eyes, his wisdom and keenness of mind was what had made him a good leader, but he found nothing praise-worthy in his son, who seemed to him a failure in every possible way.

"Lords of the Council, you were wondering upon the question of the rebellion to the west, from the strange union of the Nightriders and Westmen. I give you my son to answer your worries and put them into their graves!" Caspian IX declared authoritively, motioning to the bowing form of his son before them.

Slowly, careful to conceal his pain, Caspian rose from his bow, his black cape whispering against the polished slate floor of the large room. He could barely meet his father's gaze as he spoke.

"I regret to inform my father the King, and the Lords of this Council, that the Westmen and the Nightriders continue their unknown stratagem unopposed. Their numbers were greater than I had anticipated, we were nearly overcome. It was only by great fortune that I escaped with the remnants of my men," Caspian stated. He glossed over the bloody and carnage-filled battle against the mercenaries and spellcasters, and made no mention of the injury he acquired in saving Lord Efraín.

As he spoke, his father's face hardened, his eyes steeling with firm resolve. Yet again, his last and youngest son had failed him.

Caspian had been the only son of five to survive past his childhood and boyhood years, the others had either succumbed to Plague, or been killed in battle. The son before Caspian had been Andrian, named for his mother's father. He had died of Plague not many months before Caspian had been born. He had been – in his father's eyes – a promising sixteen year old. But Caspian, too, had been promising – _almost_ – until not many months after his mother's death. Abruptly, his father seemed to loathe him, and ridicule him. Until Caspian felt that somehow, he was responsible for his mother's passing, and everything else unfortunate in his father's life.

Caspian had inherited from his mother a forgiving, placating nature, along with the same brown eyes that could not hide true feelings well. But he was also slightly willful, and easily angered, traits from his father. And, like all his people, he had a pride that was not quickly diminished. But the anger his father held for him, he could not understand, although he had made move to many times, he remained clueless as to the hostility.

Caspian IX rose from his seat. "I sent you with over _seventy_ _men_ under your order to exterminate that mountain filth, and yet you dare to return here with the promise unfulfilled! How can you be my son if you do not act like one of the line of Caspian? You add insult to injury by returning defeated. Perhaps it would have been better for you to have returned to me on a funeral bier than healthy and alive! For then I would know you had fought bravely and well for Telmar, and for Narnia!" The king shouted harshly.

Caspian turned his head away, looking down with a sharp intake of breath. "Forgive me father," he said in a low tone, almost near a whisper.

"I will forgive you, when you have succeeded in your crusade! _Then_ , and only then, should you be fit to stand in my presence!" Caspian IX intoned forcefully, almost as if he was being intentionally cruel.

"Yes father," Caspian acknowledged, bowing at the waist slightly. "I will return to you only when I have won favor in your eyes once more. If I shall _not_ return, will I remain out of your favor forever?" he asked, turning back halfway to look at his father as he moved to leave.

"We… shall see. We _shall_ see," the King answered thoughtfully with raised eyebrow, lowering himself back onto the throne as Caspian left; closing the heavy paneled doors behind him as he went.

 **|~o0o~|**

"Ah," Caspian grimaced as Professor Cornelius inspected the injury on his shoulder. They were in the old teacher's study, somewhere on one of the many floors of Zadvede. To avoid thinking about the pain, Caspian looked at the books and dusty tomes on the Professor's desk. As he moved one book with his good hand, he noticed the corner of an illustration under the next open book. He waited until the old man had moved to retrieve something from his shelf to move the rest of the books off the illustration.

Professor Cornelius returned slowly, wondering what he could give the Prince to help ease pain, when he looked up. _"_ _That, is most unfortunate,"_ the teacher thought with a brief frown, as he noticed the book Caspian had taken up.

"Professor, why are you… reading fairytales?" The Prince asked, turning slightly to look at the older man, before going back to the book and turning the page to read the text on the following one.

"My dear Prince, you should not be looking at someone else's property without permission. And you should not be so quick to assume, besides, what I choose to read is my own; I do not feel required to give you any information as to my reasons quite yet." Cornelius smiled at Caspian, but it was slightly forced, as he reached out and closed the book before taking it from the Prince.

"But, who were those people?" Caspian asked, watching Cornelius as he put the book on a shelf.

"Men and women… _Important_ men and women, from too many years ago to count. Time has forgotten them, but sometimes the past has a way of return," the Professor replied vaguely, moving to look at Caspian's wound once more. The Prince nodded slightly, but even though he had been deterred from asking questions this once, did not mean he had forgotten.

 **|~o0o~|**

"When will you leave?" Miraz asked, walking alongside his nephew the following morning. Ahead of them, Miraz' three daughters; Marta, Josefina, and her twin sister Salome, skipped or giggled, talking about things only ten and eight year olds understood. Caspian stared intently at the hall's floor as they walked for several minutes before replying.

"When I can ask for more men from General Glozelle, and when I can fight without a great deal of agony," he replied carefully, thinking as he spoke.

"I wish I could accompany you Caspian, but your father and Pruniprismia want me to be here, you understand," Miraz apologized, feeling guilty once more, however well he hid it. The birth of a son or daughter was a poor excuse as to why he could not journey with his nephew, which would give Caspian ninety extra men.

"No, this is my mistake. I failed him; I must try to mend it. You belong here." Caspian smiled slightly, hoping his uncle felt no guilt; none of this was his fault.

"Sometimes, I am not so sure. That aside, I should greatly enjoy being at the battle to watch your victory," Miraz said, smiling confidently at his nephew before walking ahead to join his daughters, who eagerly grabbed his hands and pulled him along laughingly.

"If all goes favorable," Caspian whispered, pausing in his walk to stare out a large window overlooking the Twilight Mountains in the west.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Well, please tell me what you think. Something for me to work on among the many others I've set for myself! lol. I suppose I should really be working on those, but, I wanted to do this. I recently finished watching the Prince Caspian film, and its commentary (three times, to be truthful) so I wanted to move away from the other things I'd been doing and write this.**

 **I don't know, for some reason, I got this feeling that if Caspian's father had lived, he would have been constantly trying to please the King. I don't know, my personal thought I suppose. Sorry this is only 1000+ words, it - like all my work - shall get longer with each progressive chapter, or, stay about the same, it really just depends.**

 **All the regular characters shall appear, just like they do in the book and the film. It's just going to be a twist in plot. Westmen are my Narnian black magicians, spellcasters, wizards, mercenaries and (sometimes) bad guys that have been banished to the mountains and wilderness of the Western Wild. Nightriders are the group of people I created for a book I'm working to get published, so no stealing.**

 **'The Ruins' shall be explained further in later chapters. They are _not_ the ruins of Cair Paravel, however. They're the ruins of a country that once bordered the Western Wild. **

**W.H.**


	2. Chapter 2

**~|:** **Chapter Two :|~**

Caspian walked down the stairs toward the dining hall. He paused at the bottom of the staircase to look at a portrait of his mother. He smiled slightly at the painting, since the woman in it was smiling as well. He remembered the day the painting had been commission, since he had been the reason his mother was smiling. Near the end of the time allotted for the painting, he'd entered the room and mixed all of the court painter, Vedaro Dimore's, oils into a navy colored smudge on a large blank canvas. When the painter had asked her what was so amusing that she could not hold her pose, she had pointed to Caspian, before moving to get him out of the mess.

Vedaro had been outraged, and horrified, as it had taken him months to acquire the oils. Besides that, the Prince had ruined on of his finest brushes. But the King and Queen paid him more than he'd requested to replace the ruined items. Still – besides the problem he'd created for Vedaro – it was a fond memory he had of his mother and father, before things had changed.

" _Why_ must things change?" Caspian wondered aloud, shaking his head slightly.

He walked down the grey marble and slate hall thinking about how he would better prepare for his return to The Ruins to finish off the rebels making camp there. Rich tapestries of hunts and other miscellaneous adventures were hung on the high walls that echoed with his footsteps. As he walked past a tapestry that draped to the floor, the wind from his movement blew it outwards slightly, but he was too engrossed in his plans to notice the door behind it.

"If I could discover some means of communications that went between them and their spies, to intercept their plans, perhaps I would get the advantage," he mused to himself as he pushed open the door into the dining hall.

The Westmen were thieves, murderers and magicians, well, they descended from those men anyway. They were men cut of ruined cloth, and Caspian III had said that they could not be persuaded to put down their weapons and swear fealty to Telmar or Narnia, so therefore, they had to be destroyed. But that had not been something of importance for hundreds of years. Until now. From western reports and men who served Caspian IX, word had come from the Twilight Mountains that the Westmen were aligning with the Nightriders; mercenary soldiers and rebels, highway men of a unique caliber.

The few stories told of Nightriders were that they were masters of weaponry, capable of using any weapon from the dagger to the crossbow. They rode about in black, and could be employed for any underhanded deed that someone wanted served. But to employ them came with dangers of their own. Once an order was issued to a hired Nightrider, it would be carried out, and you could not reach the man or woman until after they had accomplished their orders. To go back on an agreement with them was death, or enslavement, rumors whispered.

So the union of these two dark clans was worrisome, but when they had begun gathering at the borders of Narnia, in The Ruins, Caspian IX issued Caspian to wipe them out, or, at least force them back into the mountains of the west. Their numbers underestimated, Caspian had ridden out as his father ordered, with his uncle and Lord Efraín. With a count of three hundred and fifty soldiers and horsemen, they had gone to The Ruins, only to be practically massacred by countless numbers of Nightriders and Westmen.

Miraz and Efraín had convinced Caspian to agree that retreat was the only option, in order to see the dawn of the following day. With the Prince's consent, they rode back to Zadvede, the count of their men coming to one hundred and sixteen. The loss of so many men had been shocking to the three leaders, and Miraz felt that something more extreme than a face-to-face battle should be undergone, but his brother would not listen.

Caspian glanced at the raised dais upon which his father sat, before walking toward his place beside the King. "I have issued General Glozelle to provide you more troops for your forthcoming crusade. The most he might spare is four hundred so shall have to accept it," Caspian IX said in an undertone as he reached for his goblet of Calormene wine.

"Of course, I understand," Caspian answered quietly. This was the first time in the two days since his return that the King had spoken to him. But Caspian had come to accept that he would only ever receive orders or issues from his father. The Prince stared out at the hall, watching various people, or the bards as they sang, ate or danced occasionally.

"My Lord the King," Lord Sopespian said as he approached from behind the king's chair. He glanced sidelong at Prince Caspian, surprised that his father had requested his presence.

"What is it Sopespian?" Caspian IX asked, turning to look back at the Lord.

"I would a moment with you," the Lord replied. The King looked at him momentarily, before nodding, as if something Sopespian had unspokenly mentioned decided his decision.

"Of course." the King stood. Caspian watched the interaction out of the corner of his eye, wondering why his father and Lord Sopespian were acting so secretive.

"What is it?" King Caspian asked in an undertone as the two men walked away.

"Another of that wretched kind as come crawling out of its hole and stands at the gate mysteriously, asking an audience with you," Sopespian murmured as they disappeared from sight.

Caspian looked over slightly at Miraz, who was sitting to the left of the King's chair, but it was clear his uncle had not heard. Caspian wondered who they had been talking about. What 'wretched kind'? He stood, and with a slight bow, left the hall as well, explaining to his uncle he felt tired, knowing Miraz would think it something to do with his injury.

Once he was free of the dining hall, he walked quickly toward the courtyard, careful to remain unseen. He walked out into a balcony overlooking the great expanse of Zadvede's courtyard, and as he moved to stand in the shadows, saw his father and Lord Sopespian enter the area as well. His father held a sheathed sword of unusual design in his right hand. Their boots echoed across the cobblestones as they approached a dark-hooded figure of unusual stature standing just inside the gate. Caspian tilted his head as he watched, curious.

"Have you decided?" the hooded figure asked, its accent strange and foreign to Caspian, who had heard every accent from Calormene to Sevenish.

"Yes, you know what I have said. It stands; I will not turn this land over to barbarians incapable of protecting it when they had the power! If Telmar could conquer it, who's to say it won't fall if I were to place it in your hands?" Caspian IX said coldly.

"Then you have sealed your fate. But give me the sword of our King, its power is not yours, and when _you_ fall to the wisdom of the west, I do not want that _weapon_ to fall into the wrong hands!" the hooded figure said curtly, holding out its hand.

"You may indeed have this," Caspian IX declared amiably. Caspian sensed that something was wrong; his father had changed his mood so abruptly that it could not be genuine. With motions almost too rapid to discern, the Telmarine King pulled the sword from its sheath and plunged it into the stranger. The caped and hooded figure went reeling back, falling against the wall. But not dead, Caspian noted.

As the stranger struggled for breath, hand grasping the hilt of the weapon that had been plunged through it, Caspian IX and Lord Sopespian advanced. "Uncover this wretch's face before me," Caspian IX ordered Sopespian with a wave of his hand. The Lord complied and walked forward and threw back the hood. Sopespian stepped back a bit in fear, Caspian noticed, as the person's face was exposed.

It took a moment, but when Caspian saw the face, he also shuddered inwardly. Strange dark hair, that looked almost like branches, with leaves arranged throughout it, as if specially placed, framed a face with a slight green-white pallor. Almond shaped eyes and fine features looked back at the King and his henchman cynically.

"We surmised you would do this, which is why I was chosen for this task. You cannot kill a dryad unless you cut down her tree!" The figure stood swiftly, pulling the weapon from her body in a lithe, graceful motion. In an unusual maneuver she managed to get Caspian IX to drop the sheath and retrieved it, before running out the open gate and into the night with more speed than most horses.

"What would you have me do, Sire?" Sopespian asked, turning to look at his king.

"Let it go Lord Sopespian, they cannot harm us, they've been doing this for a year, nothing will come of it," King Caspian IX declared dismissively, waving it off.

"You're most certain your Majesty? Because I could send men to route them and finish this," Sopespian replied quickly.

"Yes, our numbers are greater, if it comes to it, we can finish them. I just don't want my son to hear of this; you know how his mother was. I cannot have Caspian disgrace my line any further, we wait until he has left Zadvede," the King answered, turning and starting back toward the doorway they had emerged from.

As Caspian listened, he inhaled sharply at his father's words, anger rising at the implication. But why would he ever side with traitors to his father? And what was his mother's position in this argument, since she had been dead little over fifteen years ago? Question after question filled his mind, about what the Professor had been doing with that book of fairytales, and what the strange being was that had been in the courtyard minutes ago. He turned and left, wondering where he could get answers.

 **~o0o~**

Professor Cornelius walked slowly toward the large library at Zadvede, he hoped he might discover something to aid his confederates, but he wanted to do it in a way that would not harm the Prince, whom he always thought of as the son he'd never had. His mind went back to the book Caspian had held in his study. He was relieved that the boy still thought nothing of the stories he'd told him all through his childhood.

"'Fairytales', humph," the Professor scoff benevolently, smiling fondly as he moved to open the Great Library door.

"Oh, Professor, forgive me," Caspian smiled good-naturedly at the old man as he moved to go past him. But even after the Prince had turned his back, Cornelius did not enter the library, he watch Caspian go, wondering what the young man had been doing, he usually never made time for reading anymore unless it was to make sure he still could translate fluently, and those books were in his study, not the Great Library.

Suspicious, the Professor entered the library, going to the shelf where he knew the book would be. He found it where he had left it, and breathed a sigh of relief, trying to convince himself that Caspian couldn't possibly know or suspect anything.

 **~o0o~**

Caspian put the book on top of the growing pile. He'd gone through several of the older books in the library, but had come up with nothing, not a jot or tittle to verify the existence of 'dryads'. Now he was in his study trying to see if anything here made mention of the word. He grasped an especially large book, but when he opened the vellum cover, realized it was about maps, and it described the process by which one was made. He put it on his desk with slight force, starting to become frustrated.

But he looked back at it when an odd sound emitted from it as it connected with the table. He stared at it for several seconds, remembering something the Professor had taught him when he'd been younger and still in his classes. He brushed his fingers over the book, and went to open it from the middle, but found that the pages had been pasted together, making opening it from that point impossible. With a half-smile, he opened the cover, and flipped carelessly through the first several pages. After paging through several of the leaves, a large opening which had been hollowed out of the pasted pages was open before him.

Inside was a small, leather-bound book that seemed quite old. Behind it were several loose papers, some yellowed, some newer. Wondering what could be written on these objects that someone went to such great lengths to hide them this way, he took them out, turning the leather book over in his hands slowly; he placed it on the desk before turning to the pages. The parchment rustled with age as he held them in the light. Some of the writing was faded; many words were in a strange language he'd never seen before.

But when he saw his mother's writing on another sheet of parchment, he sat down, knowing this was exceedingly important for him to go over carefully.

 _'_ _I have found something that proves my theory correct. It would make sense that it would be hidden in this book of cartography, something taken from the ruins of the Old Castle by the sea. It is after all, one of the oldest books we own. But reading the accounts cause my eyes to tear, knowing all this suffering was undergone at the hands of my people, knowing that so many perished to protect their beliefs and country. If only Caspian would listen to me, but he does not think these 'fairytales' are true, I know I could never share such accounts with him, he would have them burned and that strange, beautiful sword destroyed.'_

Caspian felt odd, remembering using the same word when he'd talked with the Professor. Knowing it was his father his mother was talking about who had called the stories 'fairytales' only made the feeling stronger.

 _'_ _The majesty and beauty of these tales, it is almost too had to believe. I know Caspian needs help with the kingdom, our way of life is failing, and something we are doing is not bettering out kingdom but killing it. If only Caspian would listen. But he has told me that even were these myths still in existence, he would not align himself with them. He does not thing think they are refined enough for such things. But this book proves otherwise! They were educated, glorious! If only my son was old enough to share in my discovery, and understand this marvel._

 _'_ _I wonder if I might confide in Professor Cornelius, he seems a wise and understanding man. And he has told me several times the 'fairytales' of Narnia. Perhaps my answers I seek lie in him.'_

Caspian put the papers down and stared thoughtfully at the leather-bound book. His mother had believed the fairytales of Narnia. She had wanted him to as well. With a start, he wondered if that's what his father meant. What was dishonorable about believing in Narnians? Caspian reached for the book, knowing he had to discover the reason for his father's dislike of the stories.

The pages stunned him when he untied the leather string from around the book. Inside were pages of elegantly written script, and on some of the pages he turned were detailed drawings of strange creatures. Others had small drawings of rooms in some great hall, and sketches of men and women that looked oddly like the picture in Professor Cornelius' book.

"What is this?" he wondered aloud, closing the book and turning it in his hands to inspect the cover. But the volume offered no answers, except the number five burned into the spine.

"Five, so there must be others," he mused aloud, leaning back in his chair after putting the book back on his desk. "Why hide something as marvelous as this?" even as he spoke, however, he remembered his mother's writing and reached for the book once more. There were accounts of something in here that caused his mother pain, something in them his father hated and disagreed with.

He began reading. As he did, the words jumped out at him.

 _'_ _Narnia, the land of our ancestors, the home of The Four, our kings and queens, a land thriving with wonder and power, until it was stolen from us not long after the mysterious loss of our beloved monarchs. We fought bravely, with all the strength we possessed, but it was not enough, still we fall defeated without Them. But still, even if we are lost, it does not mean we must be forced to forsake a heritage long gloried and respected, just because we are seen as a sub race does not mean we must leave all behind and forge new lives._

 _By grace of Aslan we shall go on. Even though we have not sighted the King of kings in many a year, we cannot lose hope, for hope is what keeps us going; stubborn, unwavering hope. The belief that all will be well someday. But now for this book: Look to the east and on the edge of the glorious Eastern Ocean and one will behold the great towers and spires, columns and rooftops of Cair Paravel and the white marble city of Altair beneath, in her majestic shadow. (look to pages one hundred and ninety for drawings)_

 _To the west are the mountains of everlasting twilight, forever bathed in shadow, forever holding those of evil intent at bay. Jadis herself was not as evil and vile as some of those she sent to the Wild._

Caspian read until he realized it was late and knew that if he was to have an early morning he must pause in his reading. But what he'd discovered was fascinating, and only scratched the surface of this ancient civilization. He wanted to know more, but knew that, if all Telmarines thought as his father – which was more than likely – he would not learn anything from them. This was something he must discover and understand on his own.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Well, please tell me what you think. I haven't got much to say, except thanks for all who have read this story. I'm glad you've read it, but I wish you'd tell me if you like it, hate it, don't think it's got enough of something, or whatever. As I said in the previous chapter, this is longer, and they will most likely get this long, or a bit longer.**

 **I will bring the Pevensies into this story shortly, so don't worry! Although, things might be a bit different than the film and book. Underneath will be the same overall structure.**

 **Also, many thanks to ILoveFanfiction for those pointers, I also thought that section was awkward, but didn't know how to fix it, thanks! And thanks for reading nearly everything I post, it means the world,**

 **W.H.**


	3. Chapter 3

**~|:** **Chapter Three** **:|~**

The following morning, Caspian woke. He was surprised that he'd managed to rise early, but realized that it was most likely because he had something less mundane than preparing for war and death to look forward to now. He walked into the hall, wanting to get over the conference with Glozelle as quickly as possible.

"My Prince," the General bowed from the waist slightly when Caspian entered the study.

"General Glozelle," Caspian acknowledged, his voice warm. The General had taught him swordsmanship and horseback riding, and Caspian had always believed it to be a difficult task to get so many to obey one's orders as the General did.

"His majesty the King informed me that you will need men for this 'crusade' to defend Telmar against attack from the west, this was enlightening news to me, and I said gladly would I put my entire force at your disposal, for you are the King's son, and Caspian IX's only heir apparent. But he, he told me to spare you no more than four hundred men, and that I should not dwell on the matter. I will give you the men, but I should like to know how many are the numbers you ride against?" As Glozelle spoke, he placed several parchments onto the table, with orders for the sergeants and colonels, lieutenants and foot soldiers that Caspian had authority over, from himself and the King.

"I gladly accept your loyalty and honor to come to my aid in this battle. On the other matter, I fear I cannot tell it to you." Caspian leaned over the desk, looking at the parchments. After signing them, his gaze went toward the maps spread across the table.

"Forgive me for becoming inquisitive into private affairs then," Glozelle apologized, thinking Caspian meant the number was privileged information.

"No, you have done nothing wrong. I meant I do not _know_ the number I ride against. Therefore I cannot tell you," Caspian straightened to look the General in the eye as he spoke.

Glozelle took a shocked step back, disbelieving the Prince's words for a moment. "Why then only four hundred? I should petition the King you be given the full military. Even then all the Lords' men could well defend the lands and castle from invasion," Glozelle argued, though his voice never changed from calm and quiet.

"Do not petition the King on my behalf, you should lose your rank. I have failed him, this is my redemption," Caspian said, his voice bearing a grim edge. He turned to go, parchments in hand.

"My Prince," Glozelle waited until Caspian had turned to look back at him. "It should be several days before I might muster these men. Also, there is nothing you have failed." Glozelle held Caspian's gaze for several seconds, his eyes saying the words his mouth dared not speak in this household.

"Your concern is too kind," Caspian demurred, before turning and leaving.

"Perhaps not," Glozelle looked around the room. "Perhaps, Narnia and Telmar are in need of a new king," he muttered, looking down at a parchment he'd taken from a drawer. He reread it, before walking over to the fireplace and setting it alight. He stared into the flames, watching the words burn into it as the page was engulfed. _'A predecessor must be chosen… '_

 **~o0o~**

The swordsman flicked his wrist, blade barely missing his opponent's unprotected side. The other man arched his blade wildly, frustration making the blow heavy. But the other whirled backwards, parrying with deft of unusual litheness. The impatient opponent cut his sword through the air up, down, sideways, madly trying to make contact with the other man's blade.

"My Lord!" the man shouted, catching him off guard. Glancing up, he barely missed protecting himself. Doing so, however, caused him to bend over in pain, his sword having been forced backward by the blow, straining his injury. Instantly the swordsman lowered his blade and walked brusquely toward the Prince.

"Your Highness I did not know you were handicapped," he said in an anxious tone.

"Azeem, it is nothing, it will pass," Caspian demurred.

"Any affliction enough to cause a man to drop his blade carelessly to the ground in the heat of a battle is more than 'nothing'," the young man argued back. Azeem was the son of a Shathraparan who ruled a small province just inside Calormen, known as Pilloth-Mul. He was an excellent swordsman even for his score of years, which was why he was in Narnia, teaching swordplay. He knew the 'finer points' of the art, which were seldom taught, but greatly needed in one-on-one combat.

"It will pass!" Caspian contradicted sharply, his pain making him speak out of turn. The Calormene stepped back. Azeem straightened, some of his dark hair falling over his shoulder. He was the son of a shathraparan, and though they were more like governors in Calormen, they had all been kings of their province before Calormen had made the smaller kingdoms within her borders 'provinces'. He did not relish being rebuked like some slave or servant boy, and it showed.

"Then pass the time challenging me. A soldier and Prince must be able to fight in all situations, this will prepare you for future events," Azeem declared coldly, raising his blade.

"I am not a soldier, and who speaks to say I _want_ my title?" Caspian said darkly, his hand going to his shoulder, checking to ensure that the injury was not bleeding.

"Who says I want to be the son of a shathraparan? Your life is so free, you have not a sliver of an idea," Azeem scoffed, flicking his wrist so his blade rasped along the edge of Caspian's.

"You said 'Free'?" Caspian mocked, repeating the word as he circled around the Calormene.

"I am the oldest of all my father's offspring. I must wed some woman I have never seen this coming year; whether I wish it or not. I must serve as my father's general whether I wish it or not, as his heir. I am commanded to go where he or the Tisroc so wish, and marry whom they deem appropriate. And what of your life, since mine is so strained," Azeem asked, lightly parrying.

"I do as my father commands and ask not. I am the private mercenary of my father, the King. Exclusively his assassin, not unlike yourself. The only difference is, I don't think my father wishes me married. He wouldn't be able to send me on suicidal missions if I was," Caspian replied, his tone emotionless. He was used to these facts, and had grown to accept them.

"Ah, so Telmar and Narnia do have their dirty little secrets," Azeem grinned, crouching and arching his blade at Caspian's legs, trying to off-balance him.

"No, just reality hid under a glittering surface," Caspian contradicted, pinning the sword to the ground. Azeem frowned, not expecting that. Caspian quickly walked toward the blade, stepping on it and then kicking it away, forcing Azeem to ly flat on his back.

"Excellent maneuver, your Highness!" The Calormene praised, ducking lightly out from under the blade as Caspian relaxed his stance. "Should that be enough for today?" he asked, reaching for his weapon and walking toward a table covered with similar blades, both long and short.

"Yes," Caspian agreed, nodding.

"So, tomorrow?" The Calormene glanced up at Caspian as the Prince sheathed his sword and began walking toward the doors.

"Perhaps," Caspian acknowledged with another nod.

"And, your Highness," Azeem paused, giving Caspian time to turn around slightly, "If ever you feel you must confide in someone, I have all the time in the world. We are not so different, you and me." Azeem pointed a jeweled Calormene dagger at Caspian and then at himself.

"Perhaps," Caspian murmured once more, turning and exiting the room. He was unaware of Azeem watching him go, his face bearing a speculating expression.

 **~o0o~**

Caspian walked down the corridor toward his study, wanting to take another look over the book he'd discovered last night. Arriving at the door, he passed through it absently, ignoring the rolled parchment near the threshold. He walked toward the shelves and removed the large tome on cartography. Sitting behind his desk, he began spreading the loose sketches and drawings out around him. He noticed most of them had been done by his mother, and bore writing in the corners or near the bottom.

One, of a man from several different views, had been colored with pastels. Several of the drawings had been colored in such ways, but there were few of the people down in full color like this man, most of the colored sketches were of buildings, animals or strange beings. The man's dark hair fell to about his shoulders, not unlike Caspian's. His mother had either not seen fit to name him, or there was no name, the page was void of any handwritten notes. There was a page number on the back, he noted. Wondering if it corresponded with a leaf in the book, he opened it and flipped through them.

When he came to the page, he realized his mother had imagined a great deal of what the man might look like, since the sketch was only of his face. On the page after, was the face of a woman, and then another man, and then another woman. Caspian wondered as to their significance, since they all seemed to bear some sort of circlet, coronet, or crown, but the pages opposite them mentioned nothing except some gibberish in an archaic language.

"Mother, if only you were here to explain this to me," Caspian muttered, flipping at random through the pages. But abruptly, he stopped, and slowly paged back through them. It had been dark when his father and Lord Sopespian had met with the stranger, but Caspian would not forget the blade his father had held, and it's… uniqueness. The drawing he was staring at matched it detail for detail. Underneath were the runes 'Rhindon'.

"Rhindon… rhindon, where have I heard that before?" he muttered to himself, leaning back, staring blankly at the page. He jerked forward when he remembered. It was the root of one of their Telmarine words, he could not recall the exact word, but was certain it had something to do with war or combat. Since the professor had taught it to him, he was sure the man would know, he'd have to ask him.

With a renewed interest, Caspian turned the page. Drawings of a dagger and vials… a horn… some other weapons… a bow… quiver… He glanced up when he noticed the shadows creeping slowly across his floor. Realizing he had spent hours poring over the drawings, sketches and documents, he quickly returned everything to the tome and placed it back on the shelf. Standing, he moved to exit the room, when he finally noticed the parchment.

Picking it up, he unrolled it carefully. But the words were in the same archaic language of the book. Caspian stared at it, suspicious. This was no coincidence. Cautiously, he placed the paper back where he'd found it, wondering who had put it there, and why? He would come later and see if it was still there after the evening meal.

 **~o0o~**

"It'll cost you," the man whispered in a croaking accent, standing in the shadows, hood pulled up. In one hand, he held a scimitar, in the other, a white-wrapped package.

"What are you asking?" the short figure, hooded in a dark mauve cloak whispered back tightly. He only had so much time. His white beard fell over his chest from the shadows of his hood as he leaned forward slightly.

"Freedom, give back what was ours, all we ask," the man rasped again.

"How can I promise that?" the short man murmured desperately.

"My family has lost everything we owned, my people starved for years because of those filthy Telmarine brigands. Give this to someone who will restore Narnia, who is worthy of being King. Or find the Remnant. They would know where to put this for safekeeping. But know this; the time is at hand. There have been whispers since the beginning of last year. The woods are waking, the Remnant are being led by someone intelligent and clever, and it will not be long now." The mysterious stranger dressed in black pressed the cloth-wrapped object into the small man's hand before turning and walking into the shadows.

"Aslan's speed be with you," the small man whispered into the night.

"And with you, son of Dwarves and Men," the voice rasped eerily from the darkness. Both went their way.

* * *

 **A/N: Please Read &review. **

**Thank you for all your wonderful reviews, and thank you for the follows/favorites, I cannot thank everyone enough! I hope you enjoy this chapter as well,**

 **WH**


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